Last Pogo in Paris

I do hope you are getting the train between Frankfurt and Paris.

And whatnot.

but have fun!

Well, there's a terrible goth accessory store right by Les Halles. ;)

pogo sticks..and butter.

unfortunately, teh Amazing Randy is not here to share it with all of us. He'll have to ride his buttered pogo stick on his own time.

Stopped into a couple of FNAC's, which were pretty respectable, in a mega-store sorta way. Also stopped into "Lucky Records", just
a block or two behind the Pompidou. It really wasn't my scene, but if you're at all a Madonna fan, this is the place for you, as the
place is packed from floor to ceiling with Madge rareities.

Saw John "Duran" Taylor at Les Deux Magot with some pissy woman with two-tone hair. Got him to sign my coffee receipt, which
he happily did. A hecka-swell fella, him.

- Instead of a hotel, we rented an apartment on Isle St.Louis from a little operation called Guest Service Apartments. It was completely wonderful, and probably a closer approximation to what it's like to actually live in Paris than staying in a hotel. Visit them here: http://www.guestapartment.fr/

- One of the nicest views of Paris is from the roof of the Arab Institute (itself well worth visiting).

- With one tiny exception (courtesy of a maitre'd at newly-opened Franco-Asian hepcat lounge, Kong), everyone in Paris was unfailingly nice to us.

- Apart from maybe Japan, France displays the most refreshing appreciation for the much-maligned art medium of comic books. The sheer number of well turned out and immaculately presented comic shops was truly heartening (for a recovering comix geek like myself). Bought a lot of needless Tintin & Asterix crap.

- Want to really hate your fellow countryman (more than you already may?) Travel abroad! Americans in Paris stick out like viscous clumps of tepid dung in the Foie Gras, and behave accordingly. No wonder they hate us. Also, the second they find out you're a Yank, the fist words out of their mouth are "Ahhh, George Bush!" Yeah, thanks alot. You then spend few minutes apologizing for him.

-

Saw John "Duran" Taylor at Les Deux Magot with some pissy woman with two-tone hair.

That "pissy woman", btw, would be Gela Taylor, i.e. the new, "hey, she's an older woman!" wife. I think she's one of the owners of that Juicy Couture clothing company. IIRC, of course.

Got him to sign my coffee receipt, which he happily did. A hecka-swell fella, him.

Dude, that rocks. He and Nick Rhodes have a fantastic reputation for interactions with fans. Also, the autograph is great! I need to get his autograph. I only have autographs from Nick and Warren Cuccurullo, though I *do* have two of each of them. (Though getting an autograph from Simon LeBon is like pulling teeth from a crocodile, it seems.)

Um, fangirl moment over. I'm glad you had a great time. Really, I am. And I hope you and your wife made a lot of great memories there.

*sneaks quietly off thread*

- On our first night (my birthday), Peggy's parents (in town on their way back to Houston from Tunisia, long story) took us out to the legendary Lido for dinner. A highly touristy and somewhat embarassing joint on the Champs Elysees, the Lido is famous for being the first place to zealously display female breasts. Huzzah! Along with a very nice dinner, you are treated to a glitzy Vegas-styled show featuring countless numbers of topless French women and various acts of ridiculously over-the-top shobiz shenanigans. Honestly speaking, after a while, one is numbed by the sight of naked French nipples, but it was completely hokey and fun all the same.

- On behalf of a friend of mine here in NYC, I dragged poor Peg off one day in search of a mysterious place on the Left Bank (in the Latin Quarter) called Deyrolle. Apparently, my friend Sam's brother had purchased a strange poster there called "Squelette de Lapin" (Skeleton of the Rabitt) and he covetted it considerably. Happily obliging, Peg and I pinpointed Rue de Bac (the street is was supposedly situated) on the map and set off for it. When we reached the storefront, we found an empty, dusty, bare room....though with a sign saying "Le Boutique Deyrolle ouvert". After a few awkward moments, a rather disagreeable woman descended a flight of stairs, chewing me a new one in furiously speedy French for interupting her lunch. I stammered out my apologies in my broken French (you'd think after eight years of the language in grade school, high school and college I could manage at least one coherent sentence). After squinting and furrowing her brow at me, she led us upstairs into a truly strange set of rooms, flanked with disarmingly lifelike taxidermy and medical charts. Fetal pigs in jars, exotic jungle bugs under glass, wild boar heads protruding from the walls, it was like room out of The Adams Family house. Turns out they did indeed have the poster (a rather grotesque image which Sam's wife will invariably resent me for life for once he frames it and mounts it on their wall). I tried to convince Peg to search around for something for our house, but she politely demured (disembowled farm animals aren't really her aesthetic). Mission accomplished. In any event, next time you're in Paris, search this freaky place out.